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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29960442">but she fell in love with an englishman</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frival/pseuds/Frival'>Frival</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Confessions, Denial of Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, arthur is a musician, francis is a waiter, they are in love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:54:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,977</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29960442</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frival/pseuds/Frival</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>people aren’t supposed to make Arthur feel like he’s on the stage</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>England/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>but she fell in love with an englishman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had this fic sitting in my drafts for 6th months and I finally decided to sit down and finish it so here it is</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Music, oh he loved it. There was something almost magical about it. The endless possibilities, the countless harmonies, and rhythms-- Arthur quite liked to view himself as an artist of sorts. He painted complex feelings and stories that can’t be expressed with words onto the staves printed upon the music sheet. He blended notes to create a new shade every single time a melody sprung to life in his mind. It was beautiful, truly.</p><p><br/>
Arthur believed himself to be a sort of athlete as well (Alfred had laughed at him when he first admitted that aloud). It wasn’t easy, playing often for two hours with minimal breaks. At the end of each gig his lips would be shot and bruised, having been abused from his beloved trumpet-- or whatever instrument he had stashed away in his musical inventory taken to that night-- and lungs stretched tight.</p><p><br/>
It was always worth it, though. The afterglow after playing a good show was comparable to the one that often occurs after sex, he thought. Better even. Unfortunately, despite his passionate belief that music should be taken seriously, the group he had found himself forced into made it such a joke.</p><p><br/>
“Fuckin’ A-” Alfred tapped out a rhythm on the body of his guitar. “No, dumbass! Duh, duhduh, duh duh duhduh. What the fuck are you on?” His loud voice cut through Arthur’s thoughts. That accent of his sounded still sounded silly to Arthur, even after years of knowing the man.</p><p><br/>
“I don’t know! Leave me alone, fuckwad. Focus on your instrument,” Gilbert’s voice shrilled, sounding rough. His pale eyes glared at Alfred and were quick to respond by rewarding the American a thwack to the head with his drumstick.</p><p><br/>
“Ow!” Alfred cried out, rubbing the back of his head. The gesture ruffled his already tousled hair. “Man, I outta-” he took a step towards the responsible German.<br/>
Arthur groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Boys, it’s Vehicle. We’ve played this dozens of times, must two insist on being so bloody immature?”</p><p><br/>
“You’d think that after ‘dozens of times’, birdbrain over here would remember how to hit a fucking drum!” Alfred received another stick to the head, and the two began griping at each other again.</p><p><br/>
“Uhm, Arthur?” Matthews’ soft voice interrupted the bickering. His hand was fidgeting the keys of his tenor, looking apologetic for interrupting as he looked over the rim of his round glasses.</p><p><br/>
Arthur moved his gaze from the bumbling idiots and acknowledged the Canadian beside him. “Yes, Matthew, what is it?”</p><p><br/>
“We have a visitor,” he whispered, pointing a thumb at the studio door across the room.</p><p><br/>
The Brit felt a rush of sudden annoyance (and panic) shoot through his body and whipped his head to the door. And, there he was, as expected. Francis was stood there, grinning like a madman as he watched his friends squabble. The grin itself was enough to make Arthur rage.</p><p><br/>
Now, here’s a (not very) well-kept secret of Arthur’s. Francis, the owner of the mentioned voice, was the very bane of his existence. It was the, well, everything about him. The way he walked, so graceful and straight, full of confidence that Arthur couldn’t even begin to imagine having. His hair was so well-groomed and vibrant, it rested just above his shoulders in waves that looked so light they ought to be clouds. That voice, his cockiness, everything-- and Arthur was sure that it was everything-- about the Frenchman was infuriating. Worst of all, the one thing that Francis was so keen on doing had the most influence on Arthur’s heart rate.</p><p><br/>
“Arthur!” he called. “Beau, do you often let your bandmates fritter around during practice?”</p><p><br/>
Arthur scowled. “Firstly, don’t call me that, you chav.” Francis only beamed brighter-- his fucking smile-- “Secondly, who are you to tell me how to run my rehearsals?”<br/>
Francis walked closer to the band, the aforementioned walk making itself ever-present.</p><p><br/>
“Play a song for me, won’t you?” the Frenchman ignored the question, slipping closer into Arthur’s bubble. Ah, there it was-- the painfully obvious expensive cologne (which he also hated) filled Arthur’s senses. It smelled sweet, almost like a woman’s perfume if it weren’t for the bit of pine that snuck around the edges. “I have a special request,” His voice was smooth and sultry, the kind of tone that made Arthur’s skin prickle with goosebumps.</p><p><br/>
“What makes you assume I take requests from you?” They were too close, now, he could feel his cheeks reddening.</p><p><br/>
Francis smirked, “When will you play for me, cher? Hm?”</p><p><br/>
Arthur scoffed and pushed a hand into the other’s face. “Never, never! I told you before and I shall tell you again, no.” He dragged out the ‘o’ sound.</p><p><br/>
Francis just shrugged and adjusted his coat, then turned to the other three parties present. Gilbert, finally, noticed the blonde and hollered out from underneath Alfred’s headlock, eyes widened.</p><p><br/>
“Francis! Save me from this-- HEY,” Alfred’s arm tightened around the other’s neck. “Let me go, whore!”</p><p><br/>
Francis laughed at the poor man’s struggle, smirk caught at the corner of his lips. Arthur hated that too. “Désolé, I think you deserve this,” he said.</p><p><br/>
Alfred let out that signature mighty cackle of his, feeling triumphant at his friend’s apparent agreement, and finally, let Gilbert go. The pale blonde was smiling despite rubbing his neck gently to soothe the likely dull pain; the American often forgot his strength. Francis joined the two at the back of the studio beside Gilbert’s drumset, striking up a conversation with the two boys. Arthur chose to tune out much of what they were saying, choosing instead to empty the spit valve on his trumpet onto the carpeted floor. Beside him, Matthew did the same and began to softly blow airy notes into the mouthpiece.</p><p><br/>
Arthur tried to do the same-- he kicked himself for wasting rehearsal time on a hopeless cause-- but his attention kept being drawn back to the man he hated beyond reason.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sometimes, Arthur visited Ludwig’s as a customer rather than the night’s main attraction. Only on Fridays, though, after his late shift at his desk job, and never before the hour of nine o’clock (Francis’ shift was from twelve to nine, and on the few days when Arthur had shown up before the end of it Francis had made sure to spend his last hour pestering him-- he wasn’t inclined to allow that to keep happening.) The food was good, and he always ended those Friday nights feeling content on a full stomach and the slight buzz of alcohol warming his body. He even would sometimes treat himself to dessert, if the band had made a little extra in tips the band received their last gig.</p><p><br/>
Tonight was one of those cherished Fridays, and despite the dull ache from exhaustion in his head, he was enjoying himself. Some banter had been exchanged with Ludwig, the owner of the establishment (the German had been quite uncreative to come up with a proper name for the place, in Arthur’s boisterous opinion) and he discussed the next rehearsal date with Feliciano, who was there working one of his stray shifts as the bartender.</p><p><br/>
“Here you go, Arthur!” Feli said cheerfully, handing him his scotch from behind the counter-- a treat he saved specifically for these nights. “Are you celebrating something?”<br/>
Arthur nodded in appreciation. “Thank you, Feliciano,” He took a sip of the tanned liquid. “Right then, ‘s perfect-- as always. And, no, actually, just in a rather good mood.”</p><p><br/>
Feli winked, “Well unless you want that to change, don’t look behind you.” Then he walked away. Behind him? What could possibly--</p><p><br/>
“Ah! Arthur! Imbécile ivre, what are you doing here?”</p><p><br/>
The Brit whipped his head around, a mixed wave of irritation and anxiety crashing into his chest when he was greeted with the smiling face of a Frenchman. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”</p><p><br/>
Francis beamed “Cher, I work here. Or ‘ave you forgotten?”</p><p><br/>
Arthur scowls and ignores him, turning back to his drink, and tried to ignore the pink flush blossoming on his cheeks. “Right, well, you’ve missed your shift then-- it’s half-past nine.”</p><p><br/>
“Non, I’ve got a new shift now. Late nights during the weekend are much too busy for Feliciano and Ludwig to handle on their own-- bless their disaster souls.”<br/>
Arthur huffs out of his nose. “Alright, remind me to never come here on weekend nights, you’ve ruined ‘em for me.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>That week, Arthur found himself once again on the bar’s small stage. It was all familiar with the smell of alcohol and sweat mixed with whatever Antonio was cooking up in the kitchen, the bright stage lights shining down on his face while the rest of the joint remained dim.</p><p><br/>
His vest clung to his torso and the first signs of his lips becoming shot were apparent. Break time, then, after this song. Alfred and Gilbert had worked out their squabble from earlier that afternoon if the way they were losing their heads to the music was anything to go by. Matthew was enjoying himself as well, he and Feliciano giving it their all on their saxes. Arthur was surprised at how the Italian was doing, considering how often he missed rehearsals.</p><p><br/>
Arthur’s mood was light and airy as a result of being absorbed in the music. That was, until, he made eye contact with a certain waiter across the room. Francis was leaning down to hear the young woman sharing her order with him, eyes focused as he wrote intently on his small notebook. His hair was tied back, and his uniform was tailored. Francis was talented in his own right, a charismatic character that kept the customers coming. A smile, a quick quip that got the woman to chuckle and eyes glint gleefully-- was that a blush? Arthur cut a note too soon and mentally kicked himself.</p><p><br/>
Something else caught his attention. Ivan, the tall big-nosed Russian that was a frequent visitor to the bar. He was smiling, which was unusual until Arthur realized that he was smiling at a certain blonde American on guitar. Of course, that’s why he was here. Arthur wanted to grimace, a tight ball winding in his chest at the thought of someone smiling at him like that, coming to see him, only him, perform.</p><p><br/>
Those things stayed on his mind for the last two minutes of the song, and even the first half of their hour-long break. Every so often, Arthur would glance around the crowded tables in search of Francis. The Frenchman would try to make eye contact whenever he caught the Brit staring at him, but he always looked away before the chance was given.</p><p><br/>
Then, during the last ten minutes into his break, someone plops themselves in the leather booth across from his own. A pint is slid across the table.</p><p><br/>
“Here, you look like you need it,” Francis said. Arthur glanced up at the man, eyes wary. Slowly he reached for the glass and took a sip.</p><p><br/>
“Thanks,” he mumbled. It wasn’t necessary really, the drink. Arthur honestly didn’t even want it; he was not in the mood for such things. He took a sip, it was bitter and strong.</p><p><br/>
Francis frowned and tilted his head. “What’s the matter, beau? Bad show?”</p><p><br/>
“What’s it to you?” Arthur spat. “Don’t you have customers to be tending to?”</p><p><br/>
Francis blinked at him and Arthur cringed internally; he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. After a moment of silence, Francis spoke again.<br/>
“Is trumpet all you do?”</p><p><br/>
This question confused Arthur, because of how out of the blue it was. “I- no, why?”</p><p><br/>
“Well, Feli plays violin along with his sax, Gilbert plays flute, Alfred I’m sure has more tricks up that sly sleeve-- what about you?”<br/>
“Al sings, sometimes,” Arthur said to avoid the question. “When we need him to, good lord only when we need him to,” He took another drink. “He gets too into it, steals the show. Quite annoying, he is.”</p><p><br/>
Francis’ chin was resting in his palm, and his blue eyes were lidded, lips in a flat line. Arthur glowered back. “What’s that look for, frog?”</p><p><br/>
“I asked about you, thick fool, not your brother!” The other exclaimed, shrugging. Arthur froze, caught in his little trick, and his face flushed pink. Sure, the Brit played many instruments. Years and years of practice and lessons have blessed him with such talent, but he didn’t play the others very often. There was another thing, Arthur supposed, he didn’t like to mention it-- ever-- not even his band members knew.</p><p><br/>
“I sing, and write.” The words slip out without him meaning them to. “Originals, yeah, but we never play them.”</p><p><br/>
“Why not?” Francis’ voice was soft, genuine curiosity lacing around the question. It made Arthur’s stomach flutter-- oh how he hated it, hated this man sitting in his booth.<br/>
Despite nervous nausea building up, he chuckled.</p><p>“I don’t know? I showed a song to Alfred once, he said it was ‘the cheesiest damn thing he’s ever seen.’”</p><p><br/>
Francis grinned, his interest peaked even more. He leaned forward and said, “You’re a romantic! You write love songs!” Arthur’s face flared a deep shade of red and he sputtered.</p><p><br/>
“You asked, daft cunt! Don’t pick fun,” Francis laughed harder. “Quit that bellowing! You’re making a scene…” Arthur hid his face in his hands and peaked at the customers looking over at them through his fingers.</p><p><br/>
“I never would ‘ave guessed that from you,” the other said fondly.</p><p><br/>
Arthur groaned and slid a hand down his face, slamming it on the table. “What are you doing, Francis? Showing up to rehearsal, buying me a drink, what are you doing?”<br/>
The other blonde smirked and titled his head, then said “Well by the way you are acting one could guess I am trying to get in your pants, oui?”</p><p><br/>
“Please shut up, Christ, do you have no shame?”</p><p><br/>
“No, I am afraid I do not!”</p><p><br/>
Arthur bit his lip and looked down, trying to build up this facade of smooth coolness despite the panic in his brain. “Well?”</p><p><br/>
“Well, what, Arthur?”</p><p><br/>
“Are you? Trying too--”</p><p><br/>
“Would it bother you if I was?” Francis’ voice was teasing as if he already knew the answer and wanted to revel in it.</p><p><br/>
And that, the assumption, is what mildly offended Arthur, enough so in fact that he lied. “Yes! It would, actually, so please, be on your way now. I’ve got to be back on stage in--” he stood up quickly and faked a glance at his wrist (he had left his watch at home), “--five minutes.”</p><p><br/>
Francis stuttered, shocked by Arthur’s sudden outburst. It was the first time that Arthur had seen the other man seemingly at a loss for words. The Brit huffed and walked away-- Francis did not miss the flush that colored his cheeks and ears as he scurried away.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was half-past eleven and Arthur was beyond exhausted as he quickly packed up for the night. The club was far from empty, it being a late weekend night, but there was a new performer ready to take his place. He packed quickly, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. With his beloved trumpet in its case and farewells were given to his bandmates, he hurried out the backstage door. Harsh December wind greeted him when he stepped outside in the dark alleyway, lit only by two dim yellow street lamps. What also greeted him, much to his surprise, was Francis.</p><p><br/>
The Frenchman pushed himself off of the brick wall, “Arthur! What--”</p><p><br/>
Arthur groaned. “Francis, please, leave me alone! I just want to go home-- it’s cold and I’m tired and you’re being an arse.”</p><p><br/>
“What?” Francis repeated, seemingly struck dumb by the harshness in the Brit’s voice. “I- I’m sorry, I just wanted to--”</p><p><br/>
“To what Francis? Tease me? As if you don’t do that enough already, what with your meaningless flirting and all; it’s absolutely humiliating!”</p><p><br/>
The older man looked away at the brick wall next to him-- a bit ashamed. Arthur suddenly, despite his better judgment, felt a bit guilty for causing such a despondent look on him. “What do you want, Francis?” he asked in a softer tone, still agitated, but softer.</p><p><br/>
All of the other man’s usual confident demeanor was gone, leaving a shy curiosity behind. Carefully, Francis reached for Arthur’s hand; Arthur reluctantly gave it to him.<br/>
“You. Er-” Francis stopped himself to find the words. “I want you to go on a date with me. Not here, God no, but somewhere nice?”</p><p><br/>
Arthur despised how endearing the other looked when he was sheepish, all of the exaggerated charisma and charm shaken away. His heart was galloping and his throat felt like a desert-- this man was going to be the death of him.</p><p><br/>
He swallowed and quirked an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me, if I say yes?”</p><p><br/>
“We’ll just have to see then, cher. What if I said please?” Francis’ face was morphing into something even sweeter, a dimpled hopeful smile.</p><p><br/>
Arthur had known from the beginning that the storm of hatred and anger he felt towards Francis wasn’t actually what he so desperately wanted it to be. There was something enraging to him about it all, how this man can make Arthur feel like he was playing music every time he spoke.</p><p><br/>
He closed his eyes and squeezed the hand that was still holding his, and nodded. “Fine, yes. I’ll go on a date.”</p><p>“Really?” Francis definitely should not have seemed as overjoyed as he did. “When do you think-”</p><p><br/>
“This weekend,” Arthur cut him off, the embarrassment suddenly catching up to him. “You can choose where, but wherever we go you’re paying. Your idea, your wallet,” he gave a small smile.</p><p><br/>
“Anything for you, cher.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song that inspired this is Galway Girl by Ed Sheeran (yucky)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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